


Hati and Sköll

by swimmingfox



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dark and poetic is the vibe here, F/M, No goats at all, One-Shot, Tricky, Vikings, Wedding Night, francia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 02:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4859912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rollo goes to meet Gisla, who is to be his wife, for the first time. The marriage ceremony and wedding night follow.</p><p>Post-Season 3 little one-shot, with Rollo and Gisla POVs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hati and Sköll

**Author's Note:**

> With all sorts of massive thanks to extremely thorough editor ZoeSong, whose own marvellous and beautifully-researched Rollo/Gisla fic is [right here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4131462/chapters/9314895). And also special devout Christian kisses to Jillypups for having a first read and advising. 
> 
> Hope y'all like it!
> 
> It begins with Rollo's last scene of Season 3, meeting Gisla in the palace for the first time...

She was like a sun.

In the great hall, like no other Rollo had ever seen, something to make the halls of England no more than cow barns, she stood up and started speaking in a voice that rang like a hammer on metal.

He had seen her before. Standing with soldiers as he stood at the top of the ladder, heaving his axe into men, his blood hotter than all of Hel. Death-crazed. She had seemed a dream, for what woman would stand on the walls so boldly if she was not a shieldmaiden?

Now she looked as if she was still in the battle. As if she was carved of wood on one of Floki’s boat-heads. Or of stone, like the Christian stones. Her dress was golden. Like Sunna.

Words were coming out of her mouth as if they burnt her tongue. Rollo turned to Sinric, and his look was odd. 

A princess. The princess and the bear, the seer had said, and it had meant little, but then Rollo’s head had been more ale than clear thought, with Siggy dead. Siggy. She had been a mother, a lover, an enemy sometimes. She had been there for longer than you had ever deserved. But Siggy had not been a princess. 

The little man on the throne looked tired and like he wished he was somewhere else. This was the king, then. The man who owned these tall walls and all the fine houses in it. Rollo had not seen him on the walls in the battle.

She was still talking, spitting out her words like food that had turned rotten. There was silver on her dress too, as if she was wrapped in moonlight. As if Hati and Sköll had chased their prey across the sky over and over until they had made one sun-moon. One goddess.

The princess sat down, giving Rollo looks like she would kill him. Almost like a shieldmaiden. Well, he was used to those. Perhaps that was the custom in Francia. To not seem – keen, wanton.

He would wed her. Bed her. Make sun and moon come together. Make her keen, he hoped, soon enough.

***

Gisla lies awake with the moonlight slashed across her face, caught in the night’s thick silence. There is only the weight of the thick brocaded curtains that she has left open, and the weight of her sorrow. She slides her hand under the pillow and feels the cool blade of the dagger on her palm. Three nights ago, she took it from the feast-table and for three nights she has taken it, turned over onto her back and placed the flat of the blade on her breastbone. 

She slides the blade from under her pillow, and thinks of the words that have always lived with her. Words as familiar to her as the knowledge that the sun rises each day and that it sets again.

_Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name._

She could strike herself through the heart. Drag it across her throat. Blood spilling like the sun when it reaches the horizon. Which would be quicker, more painless? Which would leave more blood for her father to see, and to mix with his own tears? Yet she knows that he would not weep for long, her father, with his metal heart. He cares for nothing.

Our Father. She has two fathers she cannot understand. Gisla stares at the roof, searches for her God, whose silence suffocates her.

This man, this – _pagan_ , a brute who slayed men in front of her with great roars as she supposed as a great bear would, or as if he had broken out from Hell itself – has been baptised in God’s name. How can her own God look upon this Northman and call him His own child?

_Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven._

Tonight, she lifts the blade so that its sharp edge is against her skin, her bone, lightly touching. To be wed to him – she will not _think_ his name, let alone say it aloud – it is unimaginable. It is being bound with thick rope, gagged, and pushed over the side of a boat. She will have to lie with him – 

_Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses._

Gisla closes her eyes, feels the long line of the blade. It is so quiet. If she could dig out her heart – but she stops. Her heart does have love. Dark-red waves of it. Not for her father, and not for herself, but for her city. For Paris. 

And, as difficult as it has been these last nights, she has love for Him, for the great divine, all-knowing God who has made her. Who somehow knows what she does not. Killing herself would not allow her into His Heaven. 

_As we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation_ – 

Gisla blinks again, and tries to imagine the Northman with her, at her side, in her rooms, in her bed.

 _But deliver us from_ – 

She cannot think of the words any more. Her tongue dries in her mouth.

***

Rollo walked through his own wedding as if in a slow, heavy dream. As if he had drunk much ale and eaten many mushrooms, although he had had neither. He took in only small crumbs. The bright sky-gold of the treasures in the great church, the fine jewels on the people there who watched him. The tall hat of the bishop, who spoke many long, low words, words that sounded like a bell underwater. The strange, tired smile of the emperor.

He was standing at the front, staring at the great table full of cups and treasures, when the air changed in the hall, and he knew that she was there. The princess. He did not turn around for fear that he would burn under her gaze, under that fierce sun which had blazed at him every time he had tried to come near her in these last days. Sinric had said it would be better after they were married. Rollo hoped to Freyr it would be. He glanced up at the great cross hanging from the roof, the dead godchrist, the son who was also the father. Perhaps he should be hoping to this one too. And then he could only think of Ragnar up there, hung the wrong way round, dripping blood on him from his wrists and glaring at him for betraying his own brother.

Footsteps. He counted them. She was nearing him, and the hairs rose on his neck as if an animal was behind him in the forest. His hunter-blood. Perhaps she would look more like a moon today – cool and pale, as she had done next to him at the feast-tables for the last three evenings, staring at her plate as if willing the food to melt away. Rollo had tried to catch her gaze, to talk about the food if nothing else, and she had said little, or muttered to her lady-servant, or to Sinric.

Now Gisla was beside him, in a dress that made him think of a white deer. As if she was shining not with coated, jewelled cloth but with sweat, knowing that the hunter would win, knowing that he had run her down and she could go no further. 

And as her lady-servant took away the veil from her face, Rollo saw that here, now, she looked neither like a fierce sun or a pale moon. That she trembled and that tears had already stained her face. His heart fell like a plumb-stone. 

***

The Northman stands at the end of a long aisle that seems now a path, and it is as if all the people around her, faces she knows well and has grown up with, have become trees. Mute, watchful. God has strewn the path with a strange, dull light that she must follow, and will not explain to her why. Each step is careful, heavy, full of dread.

Her dress feels as if it is wrapping her in funeral garments, as if she walks with coffin-wood around her. She grows closer to the great cross that should give her strength, but for the first time she sees only the pain scratched on Christ’s face. Only the anguish, and the question. _My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?_

He is there, in his great dark furs, as if he has stepped out of a forest, as if he is made from mud and stone and pine. There is a desperate, last pain in her ribs, a dove trapped in cloisters, as she stands alongside him. This will be the last time she will be herself. Gisla, her mother’s daughter. These are the last moments. 

As the bishop speaks his words, she counts the seconds, underneath Christ’s torn feet.

***

There were words and rings and more words. There was a kiss, and it had been like kissing a clay pot. There was bright sunlight and clapping and a feast, and for once in his life, Rollo had not eaten very much, but looked at his plate, and wondered if this was right. 

He had married a woman who did not want him. In Kattegat, he had never imagined this. He had imagined women tearing their hair out to marry him, and him saying no to all of them. But men and women did not always marry for love. This was an agreement, between himself and the emperor, between men. Love would come later, he told himself, eyeing his roast goose. If he was careful.

And now they were in their chambers. Alone. Gisla stood in the middle of the room, her hands folded.

‘Gisla,’ Rollo said, and had no idea what to say next. She was a princess. He did not know what to say to princesses like this one. She was not like that mad English one, lies on her mouth, sex in her eyes. He was sure that Gisla was a virgin, and there had been a good few of those back in his own land, but only some had been willing. Not that Gisla seemed so willing, either. 

‘Wife,’ he said, raising his eyebrows a little, trying to warm the word like breath on cold hands. He did not know the Frankish word for that yet. Only for _yes_ , and _no_ , and _hello_ , and a few others that did not seem to impress her.

She crossed her arms, looked at the wall.

It was the first time they had been alone. There was a heaviness in the room, the air liquid metal. This was his right. As a husband. To have her. It was their wedding night. He took a step forward, opened his mouth -

Her instincts were hunter-quick. Before he could speak, she walked over to the table, poured wine and drank it. Drank it all, with her eyes shut, her chin tipping up. When she finished, he went to speak again, and she tipped the jug and drank a second cup, more slowly than the last. Blinked. She did not look like a woman who could keep her drink well.

Rollo swallowed, took a deep breath. A princess. And he a duc. A _duc_. This sounded better than king, to him, though he knew it was not. But there were no ducs in his own lands. He was different from Ragnar, and this was all that mattered. 

She was pouring a third cup of wine. 

He went over, took the cup from her. ‘Gisla.’

She let out a big, furious breath, like she had been holding it for a day. 

He put the cup down, kept his words very soft, even though she could not understand them. ‘I will not hurt you.’ She might hurt him, though. A little jewelled dagger in his back while he was on top of her. Biting his ear off. Hands around his neck. He felt his cock harden.

Her bottom lip was as fat as a pot-rabbit. Carefully, he put his hand up, ran his thumb along it. The feeling of her – as if her whole weight and strength was just under the skin. He traced the line of her jaw, and it was the underside of sheepskin, the down of yellow chicks. Her eyes were accusing, and yet he saw the seer in them, and his words again. And he saw his gods, and maybe hers.

He leant down, kissed her. Kept his hand on her neck. Her breath came into his face as if from behind a big rock, reluctant. A little tremor of her back teeth, chattering together. 

***

At the wedding feast, there had been pipes and drums and dancing, and Gisla had watched it all as if it was a pagan ceremony whose customs she did not understand. Her father had come to her and placed his hand on her shoulder, and for a moment she had remembered him as he had been once or twice when she was a child – warm, comforting, reading from the Gospels, or clapping as she threw her ball. And he had leant down to her ear, smiled at the Northman, and whispered to her, ‘you will do your duty,’ before rising and walking very slowly away.

Duty. It is her duty. He steps up to her now - her _husband_ \- in their chambers and touches her mouth, without asking. There is the smell of wine and something sweet and sharp, like fennel. He kisses her, and though he is gentle, she can feel the power of him. A hot pain gathers in her throat.

***

When he looked at her again, there was fear in her eyes, and hatred, and something very young. Like a child given its first sword or its first chicken’s neck to wring.

There would be no slamming her down over the table. No up against the wall with her dress around her ears. Maybe later, when she liked him better. 

Rollo took her hand and led her to the bed, which was the biggest and richest bed he had ever seen. Furs and pillows and blankets, all the colours of fresh and dried blood. He could lose things in it, rings and food. A bed for a duc and a princess.

Her nail was digging into his palm as if she wanted to get to the bone. She had still not said a single word since they had been alone, even though she had said many when Sinric was there. Most of them ugly. About how disgusting he was. Why he ate with his hands, though he had been trying to learn their customs. Why he fought without armour. Why he was a Christian, when he clearly still worshipped his other gods.

He would undress himself first. Perhaps that would make her less afraid. ‘Sit.’ She looked at him, face blank. He pushed gently at her hip, pointed to the bed.

Making himself naked in front of her felt odd. She didn’t look away, but she didn’t give him the looks that some girls did, as if he was a basket of late summer fruit, or as Siggy did, her eyes striking matches on parts of him as she decided where to put her mouth first. Gisla stared, the line of her lips very straight, as if this was something she did all the time, having men unclothe themselves for her appraisal. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she had had all those guards. One after the other, taking her pleasure from them. But the way her eyes flung themselves past his shoulder when he stood before her finally, his cock up, made him think not.

‘Come,’ he said, and wished he sounded more commanding.

She was looking again, eyes over the skin of his torso, his arms. She said something. Tiny, dark words, bubbling.

‘I don’t know what you are saying.’ He was not sending for Sinric, now. Though he would put a silver coin or two on the Wanderer liking to watch a couple in bed.

She spoke again and a finger came up, towards his tattoos. Perhaps the people were not decorated so much, here. He could not imagine that wet-arsed king sitting still whilst his skin was pricked with wood-ash.

Rollo took a step towards her and she flinched, turned her head to the side. Well, she would have to get used to it. He picked up her hand and put it on his left upper arm. ‘This is Sköll. He is the wolf that chases after the sun all day.’ She swallowed, a dry clicking sound like a hen’s feet on stone. He moved her hand to the little black sun on his chest, before bringing it over to his right arm. ‘And this is Hati,’ he said. ‘Hati is the wolf that chases the moon across the sky at night.’ He pulled her hand over his chest, to the crescent on it. Her fingers stayed there, limp. She did not understand. ‘The moon?’ he said again.

He bid her stand, took her to the window. The room was so high up. Higher than any other house he had ever been in. He pointed to where the full moon sat like a pregnant belly on three night-clouds. Feeling like an idiot, he tried to show her a wolf, baring his teeth before he thought better of it, using one hand to lope across the glass-pane, the other hand to show the moon always moving just out of reach.

A tiny, sharp outbreath. She was laughing, a small one that she made disappear very quickly. But he knew it had been there. That was it, then. He must make her laugh.

Rollo smiled at her, put his hand at her back, and kissed the side of her neck, the moon-glow on it. ‘I will not hurt you,’ he said again, into her ear, feeling her stiffness, wishing he had learnt the words in her tongue beforehand. ‘Maybe you will like it.’

Her chest rose and fell, once, her eyes as big as the moon’s. That brave child-look again. He turned her round, undid the laces of her dress. The gooseflesh rose up on the skin of her shoulders. She had gone to stone, a heavy lump of it, as he reached over, pulled it from the front of her, bent his knees and brought the skirts down, all of the dress down. He lifted her shift up, kissed her calf.

Her heel caught his cheekbone, a little black-blue pain. She had kicked him. ‘Ow.’ He rose, shut an eye, put his wrist up to it.

She put her hands up, spoke. _Sorry_ , maybe. Or _touch me again and I will kill you_. 

She was his. It was his right. Fine. Perhaps he would have bruises to match his tattoos by morning. He pulled her shift over her head and she was as naked as he was. No tattoos. No nothing. Just pale skin, as if someone had poured a big jug of milk over her. As if she had never seen the sun. She stood, shivering, clenching her fists, tilting her chin up at him, the little cross she wore sitting there on her chest-bone.

Rollo went to take it off and she slammed her hand over it, put her other hand against his chest, hard. ‘ _No_ ,’ she said and her eyes were flints. It was his turn to put his hands up.

By Freyja, she was beautiful. And young. And he would be her first and her last. He took her wrists and brought her over to the bed, lay her down. Determined to make her stop hating him. 

He placed kisses on all of her raised bones – wrists, elbows, at her neck, cheek, knees, ankles, hips. Slowly. His hands knew exactly where a woman wanted them – Siggy had seen to that - sliding along her, over her. His princess shifted and moved a little, as if she was waking up, as if she did not want to. No words, just breath. A tide over pebbles.

As he raised himself up over her, she looked at him, said something. _I am frightened_ , perhaps, or _get it over with_. He brought her knees apart and she looked up at the roof. She was not as wet as she should have been, and he licked his hand, tucked his fingers against her. Into her. A tiny whimper, like a cat far away.

There were no words as he entered her. No daggers. No teeth on his ear. Just the sound of his own breath, as loud as Aegir’s waves when he was angry. Her eyes stayed on the roof, one arm sticking out awkwardly. A tiny flicker and Rollo knew that he had lied and that he was hurting her. 

He pushed deeply, which was worse, but quicker, and felt his seed spill inside her, imagined it winding through veins. Blood on his cock, on the sheets. Before he could find something to help clean them both, she was up, walking to the water-bowl and wiping herself, her back to him. He used a tunic for himself.

She stayed standing, facing away, staring at the window. 

‘Gisla.’

It was as if she had been snatched by the moon, cupped in it, frozen.

He said her name again.

Slowly, she turned around, her fingers around her cross.

‘I am sorry I hurt you.’ He needed to learn her words fast. Shifting over, he waved his hand at the covers. ‘ _Sleep_ ,’ he said, in her tongue. ‘ _Bed_.’

She got in beside him, lying on her back, clutching her elbows. He moved up to her, curled around her a bit, an arm under her neck. ‘It will get better.’

Her eyes shut very tightly, the great castle gate of Paris.

***

 _Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee_.

She will never sleep.

 _Blessed art thou among women_ –

Where is Mary now? Where was she when she had needed her? There is nothing but this room, cavernous and full of him. His smell, which is like wet fur and dried fur and pine needles and sweat. He is there, next to her and around her, sleeping as if this was all perfectly usual, as if they had been married for years and not half a day. His hair is longer than hers.

He is so big. She thought he would seem smaller without the furs, and the Northman things – the sword, the leather straps – and he seemed taller, wider, with sharper edges. As if a stonecarver had made him. All of him. 

He had seemed to think she would be happy to see him unclothed, right there before her. He had had no shame, and seen none in stripping her, either. And had looked over her like she was laid out on a feast-table.

 _And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus_.

There was a wound in her. Between her legs, she felt widened, pierced. She imagined it closing up until the next time he put himself inside her, tomorrow night, or the morning, her belly filled again. Part of her felt glad it had been done, that she was made a woman, and the other half of her wanted to spit at that part. She had been a woman a long time, since her mother had died, her mouth slack, her fingers fluttering at Gisla’s own.

They had been married in the eyes of God. God had blessed this marriage. _Her_ God, who was somehow _his_ God. How could her God, whom she trusted in so utterly, allow this to happen? 

It was for Paris. For Francia. For them she had allowed him to kiss her, beard against her skin on many parts of her. _Allowed_ him – falsehoods even to herself. She knew he could, and she knew God looked on, and she had no idea how to do this, and – he had licked his hand and put it on her. Surely that was not usual? 

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for our sinners, now and at the hour of our death_.

***

She was asleep. Soft nose and eyebrows like swipes of dark sand. She frowned even now. 

Rollo lay, his limbs heavy with tiredness but his mind scraped awake, thinking about that tiny smile of hers by the window, thin and curved as the waning moon, wondering how many suns there would be before he saw it again.

**FIN  
ENDA**

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTES**
> 
> _Hati Hróðvitnisson_ (the first name meaning 'He Who Hates Enemy') is a wolf that according to the Gylfaginning section of the Prose Edda chases the moon across the night sky. He is the son of Fenrir. _His brother Sköll_ chases the sun during the day, until the time of Ragnarök when they will swallow the sun and moon whole, after which Fenrir will break free from his bonds and kill Odin. Hatí is possibly alluded to in the Völuspá as 'moon-snatcher'.
> 
> A _plumb-stone_ was usually called a plumb-bob, and was used by sailing Vikings when thought to be nearing land, to dredge for earth at the bottom of the sea.


End file.
